


murky waters

by zinthos



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: First Meetings, Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, Sort Of, a bit of sarcasm and humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 21:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinthos/pseuds/zinthos
Summary: At long last, Eos can be at peace. There is no starscourge at her edges, waiting to feast. There is no darkness, ready to take over. There is only growth.Nearly one-hundred years have passed since that last night of ruin. Not a single soul of those that met and helped the Last King remains.Time goes on.Or:He’s been here before, he thinks and he’s so damn sure the boy with stars across his face and the sun coloring his hair is thinking the same exact thing.





	murky waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsukibeam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukibeam/gifts).



> i am....so sorry. this is nearly two and a half months late and i am so sorry. i would tell you why but it'll just look like excuses at this point. i'm sorry and when i signed up for this wonderful exchange, i didn't think all the stuff that piled up on my shoulders would.
> 
> regardless, i hope you enjoy!

There is harmony, here, in the end.

There is pitch-black darkness and shadows devouring the world like termites.  
  
The air tastes like despair but there is hope in the Crown City, where it all began with a royal family and a prophecy that holds no room for escape. It’s lit by the fire of the Betrayer; flames that radiate heat for miles and miles, that pull at the attention of daemons and beasts, where they slither to find their end at the mercy of a Shield, an Advisor and a Best Friend. 

They fight with vigor and honor. There’s black blood on them, like second skin, splattered on the pavement of the broken Citadel gates

Somewhere inside, the Chosen One fulfills his destiny. It comes with screams of agony and whispered confessions.

And then silence.

Gladio, Ignis and Prompto lose their weapons in a breath of crystal light. All they’re left with is the pride they hold so dear to their hearts, while they watch the massive daemons stomp their way in, with fury and the purest of hate in their beady glowing eyes.

 _It’s been an honor,_ Gladio says.

Oblivion is hot-white and blinding. But it ends with a King and his friends. Their blood seeps seeping through the cracks of cobblestone and marble, slow and cold as the sky begins to clear.

The sun awakes from a ten-year long slumber.

 

-

-

-

-

-

 

At long last, Eos can be at peace. There is no starscourge at her edges, waiting to feast. There is no darkness, ready to take over. There is only growth.

Nearly one-hundred years have passed since that last night of ruin. Not a single soul of those that met and helped the Last King remains.

Time goes on.

 

-

-

-

- 

-

 

**I.**

Prompto’s had that dream again.

This is starting to freak him out, and the worst part is there isn’t anything he can do about it. What’s he gonna ask— _hey, I keep having this freaky dream, can I get some meds for that_?

It’s not that it’s anything horrific or whatever. Prompto thinks he’s pretty good at dealing with nightmares—if staying wide awake and using his tablet can be considered dealing. But this dream isn’t a nightmare, not really.

It’s those kind of dreams where you’re there but not there. The kind that feels like you’re seeing things through a camera. Prompto _hates_ those because he finds them a bit confusing and creepy in the sense that what he knows and what he sees is limited.

“I’m walking down this lab,” he says now, sitting at the small breakfast table in the small kitchen, eating his bowl of cereal with a side of buttered toast. “I wanna say it’s abandoned because I never see anyone but what do _I_ know? I don’t even know if the person I’m dreaming of is me!”

His dad makes a noise for him to continue and Prompto stares at him while he chews on some of the fruity puffs. His dad’s not that old, but he’s sure he’s older than the rest of his old classmates’ fathers. His hair’s whitening and he’s growing a bald spot that Prompto _knows_ he pretends not to care about.

His friend Aranea says that he and Prompto look the same but Prompto doesn’t see it. For one, Prompto wears glasses and he’s a bit tanner than his old man.

“I’m walking for hours,” Prompto continues, “Going through halls and walking over these dead… androids? I don’t know what they are, honestly. They look like robots.” 

“Then they’re robots,” his dad answers.

“I don’t think so,” Prompto argues. He chews again and looks around their small kitchen as if it’s the first time he’s there. “It’s so creepy, though. I can hear the echo of my footsteps on the ground, and things like movements. I think it’s those androids—“

“Robots.”

“—some living ones. Or. Working. Is it living or working?”

His dad rolls his eyes as he turns around and approaches to take his seat across from him. He has bacon and sausages in one plate and some eggs for himself in another. Prompto doesn’t like eggs. 

“You keep running from the main point here, Prompto.”

“Right. Okay. So I hear them walking and stuff. I’m pretty sure I can hear guns too. And there’s this voice…” Prompto reaches over to grab some bacon and sausages from the plate. His dad pushes the plate closer with a single finger. “I can’t hear what he’s saying… I know it’s a man but what he says—it’s like… blurry. Or, muffled.”

“Hmm,” his dad prods for him to continue. His dad’s a serious man, with an impassive face and serious eyes. But Prompto always feels it’s so _easy_ to talk to him.

“It makes me—or the person, do you think it’s me? What if it’s _you_?”

“It’s not. Continue.” 

Prompto rolls up a strip of bacon and pops it into his mouth. His brow’s furrowed, and he almost looks pained as he chews, stare distant as he sinks into that dreamy feeling.

He’s had this dream at least another three times and each time he tells his dad to catalogue them. Each dream is the same: he walks down halls, he sees those dead machines, hears living ones moving in the shadows, carrying guns of all kinds.

Each dream has something new.

The man’s voice—at least he _thinks_ it’s a man, he’s doubting himself now—is new. It unnerves him. Not the new development—or, okay, the new development too. But it’s the man’s _voice_ that _freaks him out_. It’s dumb because Prompto can’t even hear what he’s saying, he can’t make out a single word.

But his tone. Slimy and soothing but packed to the brim with contempt, dripping rivulets of superiority.

Prompto shivers and looks down at his pinkish milk and the last bits of cereal puffs left. “It makes the dream-main-character feel terrible. I don’t know why.”

“Maybe you’ll find out next time,” his dad says and sometimes, honestly, Prompto wonders if he believes him at all.

Only sometimes. He and his dad aren’t the greatest of friends, but, well. He’s heard of kids who don’t even _know_ their dads.

His dad stands up after they both finish the rest of their breakfast in silence, taking the empty plates back to the sink before turning away from it. He points at it without saying a word and Prompto already knows: he has to do his chores before he can even _think_ about going out with Aranea.

Prompto leans his chin against his upturned palm and sighs.

 

- 

-

 

It’s not that Noctis doesn’t like roadtrips. It’s tradition, after all, for him and his dad to go out and visit the country of Lucis. So, really, it’s a big part of his life. He enjoys it very much.

 He just hates it when his dad finds openings to talk and invest in his business. It leaves Noctis with no choice but to wander around on his own. 

They’re in Galahd. Noctis hasn’t been here since he was five, where his dad would walk with him through the bustling streets and trying all these different snacks from different food stands. Noctis can probably remember the stickiness in his palm from holding his dad’s hand under the hot sun. 

Now, though, Noctis walks those same streets. He’s alone, hands in the pockets of his shorts and a glower easily escaping his careful mask of impassiveness. The streets have cords with round lightbulbs hanging criss-cross over them, pinned up by the lampposts. They’re off now, but Noctis remembers what they look like when the sun sets and the sky darkens. 

“’Ey, kid.” 

Someone calls to him.

 Noctis has to squint to see through the smoke of roasting meat and vegetables. 

“Try this.” 

A stick’s handed to him, peppered meats and vegetables pierced through. 

Noctis remembers eating this too; the weather humid and gross, groaning in annoyance as he and the others sit on the steps leading to the market streets of Lestallum. He’d be all bruised and bleeding, a headache or ten nestled in his temples and— 

Noctis pauses from eating and looks around at the vendors flapping folded cardboards at the smoke, skins brown and bronze, glistening with sweat.

 He’s never been to Lestallum, what’s he even thinking…? 

He furrows his brow as he studies the meats in front of him. He’s never had this before; they were too spicy for him when he was a kid. But… he _remembers_ eating it. He remembers biting into a pepper seed, the way his eyes watered and how he conspicuously spat them out afterwards. 

Noctis blinks when he realizes the vendor’s waiting for him to give the food a try, his expression eager for any approval or appraisal. Noctis takes a bite, his knees almost going weak from the combination of flavor, the tenderness and roughness in the meat. 

“S’good,” he tells the vendor and it seems to be the right thing to say. The vendor claps his hands, grin wide as he laughs.

 “Keep it!” He waves his hand when Noctis tries to pay. 

Still rather confused, Noctis merely manages an awkward smile before walking away, steps slow and his movements hesitant as he continues to eat his free snack. 

It’s a dumb thing to continue to think about, he knows. It’s just that the feeling of sitting in Lestallum felt so _real_. The thought of the banter and the _laugh_ —it’s giving him goosebumps. But he’s seriously never really gone any further than Leide on his annual summer roadtrips with his dad. 

Maybe he’s just violently projecting a memory from a movie. 

“Noctis.” 

His father bumps into him at a corner, his smile nice and his beard shifting as the smile grows. Noctis looks at him; his dad’s eyes grow greener during the summer. It’s intimidating. 

“Dad, do you remember me having these the last time we came here?” Noctis lifts the snack up and his dad eyes it. 

“You aren’t fond of peppers.” 

“I mean… yeah…” 

His dad wraps an arm around Noctis’ shoulders and begins to lead him away. “It was a long time ago,” he chuckles. “You were a boy then. You weren’t fond of peppers then, either.”

 Noctis considers this, distractedly handing the stick of meats and veggies to his dad for him to finish. He gives a light shrug at what’s bothered him so much and he lets it go. 

Stupid movies.

 

- 

-

 

The Citadel is Prompto’s favorite place in the city.

It’s the oldest, tallest skyscraper in Insomnia, with massive gates that surround its entire perimeter, black in color and probably as old as the building itself. Prompto knows there’s a section that had crumbled, long, long ago but was rebuilt over time, way before he was even born.

It’s said that the Citadel used to be the home of Lucis’ royalty, forever ago, when there was still a monarchy. There were kings and queens that conquered and discovered the country of Lucis, setting up cities and towns and reeling them into their reign.

Prompto’s been a fan of history since the subject became a big part of his academic curriculum but they only ever brush up on the Old Wall; mostly because not much is known of them and all the attention was set on the King of Light.

It’s the summertime so the Citadel’s always crowded with citizens from other Lucis regions, including usual foreign tourists.

Despite the fact that he’s been here more times than should be normal, Prompto drags Aranea with him to spend the day wandering the eerily lit halls of a castle-turned-museum. 

“I’m bored,” Aranea drawls for the hundredth time.

They’re in the less interesting parts of the Citadel; where the King used to sleep and where the Prince lived before, supposedly, he was sent off to make a life of his own. 

Prompto hums in response, distracted as he drags his fingers against the walls while he walks. They’re supposed to be in a tour group, since it’s the only way to get inside, but Prompto’s been here so much he’s found a way to sneak off without being noticed.

They’re also technically not supposed to touch anything but… but Prompto can’t _help_ himself! He’s always felt so drawn to the ancient building ever since the first time he came in, way back on a fieldtrip from elementary school.

It always gives him goosebumps—the good kind, though. The kind that’s like a physical expression to how much he likes being where he is, seeing what he’s seeing even if he hates the legends tied to everything.

“Yo? _Mercury_.”

Prompto _really_ hates that nickname.

“Do you wanna go see the famous painting?”

Aranea scrunches her nose up. “The one that’s literally a mess of splotches and all these lameos try to pass it off as the physical representation of the Prophecy?”

“It’s not a mess of splotches!” 

Aranea snorts and rolls her pale eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Prompto pouts, pushing his glasses back up his nose and leading them out of the old halls and towards the main floor. If he’s completely honest, he hates the painting itself—or, okay, he doesn’t _hate_ it.

He just finds it dumb.

The Prophecy bothers him—it makes him feel awful that some Prince, or, _the_ Prince had no chance to make his own choices. That he was destined to die and he was alright with it. Prompto can’t really believe that the Prince was alright with it, but that’s what they say.

Personally, he has a big thing for the throne room. Where elegant stairs of marble flank a golden throne decorated by elaborate metalwork. It’s the room with the most damage, the one that no one’s been able to rebuild, the one that makes a hundred different scenarios run through Prompto’s mind, his heart filling up with sadness and anxiety.

A tickly feeling that he’s weirdly fond of.

“This isn’t…” Aranea sighs, arms crossed in front of her chest as she pauses near the door. “You have a strange kink.”

“It’s _not_ a kink,” Prompto stresses, embarrassed that he’s subconsciously lead them both to the throne room. “I just… Isn’t it _creepy_?”

Aranea lifts an eyebrow and stares at him for a second before tilting her head to look at the beautiful room itself. Prompto studies the rubble that falls over one set of stairs, the open sky at the other side where some of Insomnia’s newer buildings are just barely in view.

“I would say yes, but you’re such a baby, you’d cry.” Aranea’s smirking when Prompto turns back to her.

“I wouldn’t. I mean. _Maybe_ … I think it’s a really cool kind of creepy.”

“Really cool,” Aranea mocks, breaking away from the pillar she’d been leaning against and making her way straight for the stairs. “C’mon. You’re so turned on by this place, you might as well come up and see it up close.”

“We’re not… Aranea, we’re _not_ supposed to go up there!”

Prompto feels a thrilling kind of sensation, watching her walk up the stairs, expertly moving around the fallen boulders over the stairs until she’s at the landing where the throne itself rests.

He sucks in air, moving much slower, eyes wide and mind fuzzy. His heartbeat escalates the closer he gets, steps much clumsier than his friend’s. He doesn’t even realize he’s gotten to the throne until he feels a pressure in his chest where he’s holding his breath captive.

It’s said the King of Light died here.

It’s said the Prophecy was fulfilled on this very throne. This is where he’d sat to finally take on the title of True King, where he’d been stabbed repeatedly, blood seeping out his wounds and to the throne.

There’s nothing there now, but Prompto—

“Why are you crying?”

Prompto looks away from the throne and to Aranea, slowly raising a shaking hand to follow a tear trailing down his cheek.

Speechlessly, he turns back to the throne.

 

-

-

 

The week before summer break is over rolls in and Noctis finds himself at his least favorite place: Galdin Quay. 

It’s a beach resort that’s always getting remodeling done and the ferry rides are always closed when Noctis and his dad come to spend some days here. He finds it pointless, despite finding some deep calm in staring out to the beach itself. 

It’s a few days before his birthday and his dad’s always liked bringing him here. His dad likes to fish and though sometimes Noctis wants to give it a try, he doesn’t think he’d be as good. 

Today’s a sunny day and Noctis sits at the edge of one of the docks, staring off at the waves. He mostly dislikes Galdin Quay because of that stupid island not too far off. 

Last year, on one of the only few times the ferries have coincided with their visits, his father convinced him to join a tour heading out there. The ride over had been nice because Noctis had been leaning against the railings, watching the waves crash against the ferry, some fishes speeding away from the disturbance, even. Galdin’s beach is _that_ clean, _that_ clear. 

The island’s named Angelgard because of the two peaks that could look like wings. It’s a barren place, rocky and uneven with nothing interesting to it except for these ruins where, it’s said, a prison used to be. Noctis remembers the tour guide was really into the whole thing, even adding a little story and myth to it. The myth being that the Gods of Old would gather there and share their powers and magic with humanity. 

 _Ramuh passed judgement here to those that were imprisoned_. Noctis had been impacted by that stupid sentence if only because of the rusty metal poles that were, according to the tour guide, supposed to be staves surrounding the prison ruins. 

He’d felt a shiver run down his spine. Noctis seriously never wants to go back there. 

Footsteps bring him out of his reverie and Noctis gets rid of the glower on his face he’s directing straight to the island. 

“Sorry,” the person starts and Noctis looks over his shoulder. The guy, a year or two older than him, squints at him with green eyes, glasses in his hands as he cleans the lenses. “I was hoping the ferries would be working today.” 

“Ha,” Noctis smirks. “Good luck with that, dude. Ferries are always out of service here.” 

“Mmm,” the boy hums. “Shame. I’m only here for the evening.” 

Noctis nods, turning away from him and back to the beach. “You’re not missing much.” 

“Come here often?” 

“Just the summers.” 

“Mmm,” the boy hums again. “My name is Stupeo, by the way. I’m sorry I interrupted your solitary moment.” 

Noctis sends him a funny look over his shoulder. “S’okay, I guess. I’m Noctis.” 

“Noctis?” Stupeo tilts his head, a wry smile on his lips. “Like the legends?” 

Noctis rolls his gray-blue eyes and groans. “Yeah. My mother was a history geek.”

 Stupeo chuckles. “That’s odd.” 

He feels the burn at the tip of his ears and Noctis looks away quickly. All his friends love to tease him about his name, if only because it’s from the old legends. He’s usually called Cael anyways and he’s grown rather attached by the dumb nickname. 

“Sorry,” Stupeo apologizes again. “That was rude.” 

Noctis stands up from where he sits at the edge of the docks. He looks at Stupeo and his green eyes and mousy-brown hair. He furrows his brow for a second, vision going blurry before returning to normal after a blink. Distractedly, he mutters, “I’m used to it. Sorry about the ferries.”

 

-

 -

 

**II.**

 

By the time the first day of high school rolls by, Prompto’s dream has gotten way out of hand. In his opinion, anyway.

He dreams of darkened halls in a laboratory, broken machine soldiers and living ones walking, hiding in the shadows. He dreams of a man’s voice, words muffled and indecipherable, yet his tone so clearly taunting and spitefully kind. He dreams of empty rest areas that lead into a darkened room with tankards holding men with his face, all unconscious and all with tubes attached to his arms and neck.

His morning wake up call is jumping off his bed and slapping his hands to his arms, limbs shaky as he tries to pull off tubes that don’t exist. There’s a thick wave of anxiety that’s breaking free from somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

“ _Who am I_?!” He cries just as his father opens the door to his room and walks closer, gripping his shoulders to keep him still. “Who _am_ I?!”

“Prompto,” his father states, calm because maybe Prompto needs calmness in this moment of thick panic. His father’s eyes are violet-blue, like his own, face peppered with freckles, jaw lined with a growing white beard. “Get a hold of yourself, son.”

Prompto wheezes, letting himself fall dead weight against his father. “I’m inside tanks.”

His father is quiet. 

“I’m inside tanks, dad. I’m not me, I’m—“

“It’s just a dream,” his father interrupts and Prompto rides the waves of his panic attack kneeled on the ground, his father’s fingers digging into his shoulders. It’s painful, but it reminds Prompto that he’s still human.

 

-

-

 

Noctis and his best friend Iris sit on the bleachers of their new high school for lunch. The cafeteria food is seriously unimpressive, especially since they’ve landed with a principal that wants to ensure healthy diets on their students.

 Noctis really hates vegetables. 

“Pretty sure I’m allergic to carrots,” he mutters, shoving his tray away. 

Iris rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her apple. She doesn’t say a word to this; they’ve known each other for _years_ , it’s only normal for Noctis to be muttering about his disgust of carrots and peas and even lettuce. 

“Eat the crackers, at least,” she says, looking down at her cellphone. 

“They’re stale,” Noctis whines and leans back. 

He looks up at the sky, a clear gray-blue. Around the courtyard, the rest of the students live in their own worlds, laughing with their friends and moving from one space to the other. Noctis shifts so he has a good view, eyeing group of friends that sit on top of picnic tables or on the grass. 

There’s security around, watching over the students and ready to break out fights between whoever’s ready to start things and get a reputation on the first day. Noctis sips at his water bottle as he continues to observe.

“What class do you have after this?” 

“P.E.” 

“Ha! Sucks for you,” Iris grins, amber eyes bright under the sun. 

Noctis sneers at her for a second before he has a weird sensation that gives him a bit of a headache. Like déjà vu or a flashback or something seriously stupid and weird like that. 

He furrows his brow, looking over Iris’ shoulder and to the cafeteria windows where there’s a couple of students standing up from their table. The cafeteria has a wall made of glass so it’s easy to see inside. Noctis furrows his brow at the couple, both grinning and laughing. 

His heartbeat’s fast and vibrating against his chest. He’s trying to figure out what’s made him feel that heavy feeling, like he’s remembering something without his mind actually remembering anything but white space. 

“Cael?” 

Noctis looks away from the boy and the girl and back to Iris. 

She blinks at him, standing up and holding her tray. “The bell rang. See you after school?” 

Noctis shoves the dizzy feeling away and awkwardly grabs his own tray. “Yeah. Okay. Uh.” He follows Iris down the side steps. “Right.”

 

-

-

 

The week rolls by quickly and Prompto’s surprised about it.

At least when it comes to his dreams. They’re still there, but they’ve just been…different. For example, he keeps seeing someone with eyes the grayest blue, like stars.

He’s doing something, moving frantically, his expression pained and worried. Prompto’s not sure who he’s trying to help but that’s the downside about his stupid dreams—he never knows who the main character is.

It’s Friday afternoon, after lunch and he’s in his P.E. class. They haven’t even been given P.E. uniforms but their coach is having them run laps around the courtyard. A sadist, Prompto thinks as he jogs, the sun intense on his back. 

Someone bumps into him and Prompto stumbles a bit before he catches his balance. He turns over his shoulder just as someone apologizes in a familiar voice. For a second, in his mind, he sees that blue-eyed guy from his dreams and Prompto has to stop from jogging so he doesn’t fall at the confusion he’s suddenly feeling.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he responds, distractedly but whoever bumped into him isn’t there anymore.

 

-

-

 

On Sunday Noctis goes to the Citadel museum with Iris and her little brother, Gladiolus.

Her brother’s always freaked Noctis out for some weird and unknown reason; maybe it’s because of the way the younger boy looks at him. Like he’s seen a ghost or Noctis has just mentioned how lame magic and fantasy is and pretending a ruler is a sword is even lamer. 

He’s gotten used to the stares, considering he’s known Iris since the fourth grade. Their day goes by normally until Noctis stands in front of the ancient framed art that illustrates the Prophecy. 

It’s not Noctis’ first time going into the Citadel, in fact, he’s been brought in for fieldtrips at least a handful of times. But it’s in this very visit that he feels the most nostalgic, most solemn feeling wrap around his bones, like nerves. 

He sucks in air and stares up at the painting with tear-blurry eyes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s muttering _I walked tall_ until Iris is calling out his name. He walks out of the museum seconds later, leaving a stunned Iris behind along with her weird little brother that looks at him without looking at him at all.

 

-

-

 

Monday morning comes and Prompto wakes up deeply disturbed because it’s the third day he didn’t dream about the laboratories or the machine soldiers or the men with his face inside tanks.

He keeps dreaming weird and random things. Weird in a good way though. The kind that make him feel nostalgic, like memories that are resurfacing and he wants to go back to.

This morning he dreams about a nigh sky with the stars so clear.

He’s lying on a bed of grass and there’s someone lying there with him, laughing as Prompto points at stars and mentions the funny images he can make out. This time, Prompto knows it’s himself because the arm pointing up is his—it’s all freckled, like he’s been out in the sun so much. Like his stupid nickname, Mercury, the closest planet to the sun.

He leaves without eating breakfast and the walk to his school is a blurry afterthought.

So is first period—as a matter of fact, so are all his classes until the lunch bell rings and Aranea snaps him out of his daze. She’s looking at him with narrowed frosty-green eyes.

“Did you hear me?”

“No.”

That earns him a piece of orange-peel to be thrown his way. Prompto snickers as he flicks it off his lap and looks back up at his best friend, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I said you look like a wreck.”

“Well, shit,” Prompto laughs. “Thanks, I guess?”

Aranea rolls her eyes and sighs, leaning her cheek onto her palm and looking out the courtyard. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re going to think I’m stupid…”

“I _always_ think you’re stupid,” she replies and grins, all sharp, when Prompto flips her off.

“I haven’t had that dream all weekend. Not even today.”

“Your weird sci-fi dream?”

“It’s not a sci-fi dream!”

Aranea snorts, popping an orange wedge into her mouth. “It’s definitely a sci-fi dream. Anyway, isn’t that a good thing?”

Prompto twirls his water bottle by its top, looking out at the yard and all the students from different grades mingling together. “I mean… sure…. But I’m having these dreams now—“

Aranea groans.

“—like little moments. That’s what they feel like. Like I’ve lived them before. Check this out I dreamt about pouring out my deepest fears while sitting at the rooftop edge of a motel. When the hell have I ever done that?!”

“You’re psycho.”

“ _Dude_.”

Aranea sighs and throws another orange peel at him. “Relax, shortcake. Sometimes dreams are just dreams.”

Prompto looks back out to the courtyard, considering that maybe Aranea’s right this time.

 

- 

-

 

It’s after school and Noctis is nearly out the school gates when he gets bumped into. 

It’s a bit windy, despite the clear skies and the sun being out and bright. Noctis has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks and as he leans forward and balances himself on the heel of his feet, he thinks he’s been here before. 

He blinks his eyes and slowly stands back to his full height, turning his head to the side and stopping. There’s that blank, heavy feeling inside his mind that blinds him for a few seconds before it all clears out and he’s staring at violet-blue eyes looking right back at him. 

Noctis feels his heartbeat race, feels it grow faster and faster the more the other boy’s features twist into one of confusion, to shock and then realization. 

The boy has freckles all across his cheekbones, up to the space between his eyebrows, down to curve of his jaw, down to hide under his uniform shirt. His lips are thin and they slowly shift into a smile that Noctis swears to every god that can possibly exist he knows—he _knows_ that smile. 

He’s been here before, he thinks and he’s so damn sure the boy with stars across his face and the sun coloring his hair is thinking the same exact thing. 

Breathlessly, Noctis whispers “Hi.”

 

- 

-

 

He’s been here before. And suddenly he remembers stolen nights like bookmarks and imprints that time has washed away. Suddenly he remembers being on the roof of motels and sleeping under the stars.

“Hi,” Prompto breathes out.

 

-

-

 

They both exhale.


End file.
